"It is all is to your liking, mademoiselle?" Marcel asked. He opened the curtains with the practiced flourish of a magician to reveal the breathtaking vista of the Eifel Tower backlit by the setting sun.

"Il est parfait," Imogen responded as she cast an appraising glance around the penthouse suite and smiled. "Absolutely perfect, Marcel."

The exclusive hotel had a well-earned reputation for its painstaking attention to detail. The suite was furnished with elegant period antiques, and the walls adorned with rich, intricately woven tapestries and fine oil paintings in ornately carved gold leafed frames. The appointments were tastefully understated with thoughtful personal touches such as the half dozen vases of fresh flowers, the soft glow of richly scented candles, and the inclusion of half a dozen international fashion magazines with her photo on the cover artfully spread on the dark wood coffee table.

"Mademoiselle Claire arrived with your baggage this afternoon—you'll find everything pressed and hung in your closets."

"And the other arrangements I requested?"

"Oui, mademoiselle," he responded opening the small refrigerator discretely installed inside an exquisitely carved armoire. "A plate of our very finest cheeses and fresh fruit, a bottle of Dom Perignon, and there is a bottle of excellent Russian vodka in the freezer. Your dinner from Maxim's will be delivered promptly at eight forty-five."

The opulent trappings would, no doubt, ruffle Kuryakin's Bolshevik sensibilities, but she'd made more than enough concessions to the man's compulsive austerity and he would simply have to "take one for the team" this time.

"I was assured that our privacy would be stringently guarded."

"Of course, mademoiselle. I alone will handle everything for you during your stay—even housekeeping should you require it."

"Thank you, Marcel, my…companion is an intensely private person and we don't want to find our intimate moments fodder for the tabloids."

"Understood. We take great pride in our discretion-not even my dear wife will know of your stay and she is one of your most ardent admirers."

"What is your wife's name?" Imogen asked as she rummaged through her purse for the blue wallet with her supply of francs.

"Sophie," he responded with a smile that indicated a great deal of affection.

"Do you have a pen?" she asked as she handed him some folded banknotes.

She snatched up the copy of Paris Vogue from the coffee table and wrote: 'To Sophie, Best wishes always, Imogen!' If you would be so kind as to wait until after we've checked out to give this to her?" she said returning his pen.

"Merci, mademoiselle," he said. "You are so kind. My Sophie will be so thrilled with this."

Imogen was normally averse to a man using the word 'my' in reference to a woman, as though she were somehow his possession. Yet, there was something in the way Marcel said "my Sophie", a warmth in his voice and a sweet gleam in his eyes, that revealed a man who both possessed and was himself possessed that she found utterly charming. Would Illya Kuryakin's eyes ever light up like that at the mention of her name?

She checked the clock on the desk; it was seven-ten. He'd be here in less than an hour.

She'd changed her clothes three times before finally settling on the low-cut black Halston dinner dress with the provocative side split, then paced the room anxiously fluffing the already fluffy pillows. The busywork did little to ameliorate the sense of unease that had been lurking in the background the past few weeks. Though he'd denied it, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was a subtle distance between the two of them since the what he referred to as simply "the incident" barely a month ago.

Ever the master of deflection, Kuryakin managed to side-step her questions about how he'd ended up with a bullet in his chest with the same deft aplomb as the other times she'd enquired about the details of his work- quirking his eyebrow and saying that if he told her he'd have to kill her. It had long ago ceased being amusing, and eventually she'd simply stopped asking. Imogen knew only that he worked for the international law enforcement entity UNCLE in some capacity, and, based on the eclectic assemblage of scars on his body, the work he did was apparently quite dangerous.

He'd been slightly less taciturn in sharing details of his personal life. She'd been able to piece together enough of the basics. Though he looked to be around thirty he was actually thirty-seven years old and despite the gold band he wore, he'd never married. He was Ukrainian by birth but educated in Western Europe, with a Ph.D. in something dreadfully boring and unfathomably scientific from Cambridge. He played several musical instruments and was particularly knowledgeable about classical music and American jazz.

Last, though certainly not least, the trump card: what the man lacked in verbal communication skills he more than made up for with his nonverbal communication skills in the bedroom. Still waters really did run deep. Behind that enigmatic cool exterior and shy, sweet smile, was a sexy beast who could arouse her with a glance and play her body with the relentless power and sensitivity of Shostakovich at the piano.

He'd never mentioned family of any sort and had only spoken of two other people in the nearly ten months they'd been together. A colleague named Napoleon—a man who Illya, in a rare unguarded moment, had described as being like a brother to him—and of course the ubiquitous Lisa-a woman whom she'd initially assumed was Kuryakin's secretary. A woman who had an uncanny and extraordinarily annoying knack of calling him on that little magical pen thingy while they were in flagrante delicto. By Imogen's reckoning Lisa owed her half a dozen orgasms.

Illya had presented her the plain white card with Lisa's number with the gravity most men would have reserved for the proffer of an engagement ring. She was, he'd instructed soberly, only to call the number in an emergency. At the time she'd taken it as a huge step forward in their relationship—though upon reflection he'd never actually indicated if she was to call the number if she had an emergency or if it was for her to notify Lisa should some emergency befall Kuryakin himself.

She'd called the number on the card three days after he failed to show up for their weekend getaway to Montreal last month and didn't respond to any of her frantic phone messages. She was ashamed to admit she'd made that call to tell him off—and was brought up short when the exhausted sounding woman at the other end of the line told her that Illya had been gravely injured five days previously. Lisa had dispatched a man who introduced himself as Mark and his partner April, to bring her to the hospital—and despite the vehement objections of the three burly, and obviously armed, men guarding his door— Lisa escorted her past them to Kuryakin's bedside. There was something in the way the men deferred to her that told her Lisa Rogers wasn't anyone's secretary.

Imogen had barely recognized Illya, so bruised and battered lying on the narrow bed surrounded by a choir of strange machines singing out his life signs as he struggled for each breath. She was unable to quash the reflexive gasp of horror.

"I know it's hard to believe, but he's better than he looks," Lisa had said, touching Imogen's arm reassuringly, "But he's still critical. The doctors think having people he cares about nearby might help him to regain consciousness."

Did Kuryakin 'care' about her? She wanted to think so but honestly wasn't sure. Neither of them had used the word 'love', not even in the heat of passion—at least neither of them had at that point.

The dark-haired man sitting next to the bed looked up anxiously as they approached. Like Lisa, he too had appeared exhausted.

"It's alright, Napoleon," Lisa said softly. "This is Imogen, Illya's girlfriend. Remember, I told you Mark and April were bringing here? Perhaps you could arrange to have some coffee and maybe some sandwiches brought up. Then I'd like you to get a couple of hours of sleep."

Napoleon—she recognized the name as Illya's colleague who was 'like a brother'.

"I don't think…" he began but Lisa cut him off.

"You haven't slept in two days. I'll stay here with Imogen and after you get some sleep you can come back and then I'll get in a couple of hours myself, okay?"

"Are you giving me an order?" he asked sharply.

Lisa sighed. "It's a suggestion, Napoleon."

"I'm sorry," he responded with a wan smile. "It's a good suggestion, Lisa. You'll call me if he wakes up?"

"Of course."

"I'm sorry, but one of our people is going to have to stay in the room, Imogen. I don't know how much Illya has told you about his work—but agency policy in this scenario requires one our people with him at all times."

How much had Illya told her about his work? 'How much is less than nothing, Lisa?' she had almost responded. 'That's how much he's told me'. This must be how Alice felt being thrust through the looking glass, caught up in some surreal nightmare. She was in love in Illya Kuryakin, and was hit square on with the painful realization that the man was a complete stranger.

She and Lisa sat in relatively companionable silence for a while. Imogen was surprised when Lisa pulled out the latest issue of Vogue from her purse, given the Filene's bargain basement ensemble and generic 'comfortable' shoes the woman was sporting.

"I thought you looked familiar," she'd said studying Imogen's face on the cover. "I don't normally have time to read fashion magazines, or really any magazines for that matter, but my boss is insisting I upgrade my wardrobe to something more befitting my new position. It's all rather overwhelming—I'm not sure where to begin. I have to admit I was wondering why Illya had a copy of Vogue—I guess now I know."

Imogen liked Lisa. She'd been gracious and very kind, making sure that she was comfortable—and had even made a point to credit Imogen's presence as a factor when Kuryakin finally regained consciousness- though Imogen doubted that Kuryakin had been even aware of her presence.

"I love you…" she'd blurted out without thinking when his eyes opened. His response hadn't been what she'd expected.